


the stuff that dreams are made of

by rime



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Noir, Case Fic, Film Noir, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:40:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23113333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rime/pseuds/rime
Summary: Private investigator Sylvain Gautier investigates the disappearance of Dimitri Blaiddyd.[the sylvix noir casefic nobody asked for! san francisco, 19xx.]
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier, not enough dimilix to tag but like. It's There.
Comments: 41
Kudos: 115





	1. Chapter 1

**I.**

It was ten AM on a Thursday when the woman arrived. 

She was not a woman one could easily picture calling on a detective. Her hair was the color of white sand. Though features were delicate the set of her jaw betrayed she was nothing of the sort. This was a woman used to getting her way. As he sat and waited she gave his office one long slow look like a commander surveying an army. Finally she sat in the chaise across his desk and appraised him with that same eye. 

What a woman like her was doing here he had no idea. In fact he would have believed it a mistake had he not seen her stop distinctly at the sign on his door: SYLVAIN GAUTIER, P.I.

“What can I do for you today, miss….?” 

“Edelgard,” said the woman. “Edelgard von Hresvelg.” 

Though Sylvain recognized the name, he showed no sign of it. Only took a long slow drag of his cigarette. “Hresvelg,” he said, almost to himself. “And your business?”

The woman -- Edelgard von Hresvelg -- looked at him sharply. Then away at the patches of light filtering through the blinds. In the light those cool grey eyes verged upon violet. Next she spoke carefully. 

“I’ve heard you’re an excellent private investigator. I’d like to hire you to investigate a matter privately.”

“Excellent,” said Sylvain. “Who’d you hear that from?” 

She sidestepped with ease. “They said -- that you’re the best in the business. That’s what they said.”

“And they’re not wrong,” he said. “I’m very good. But I don’t take on cases much. I’m sure a well-informed woman like you knows that just fine.” 

“Yes,” she said, faintly. “I know that.” 

“Come off it,” he said. “I know what they say about me -- that I like women and liquor and drink to excess. And they’re right about all of it. Your so-called friend was right about one thing, though. I’m awfully particular about my cases.”

She was not looking at him now. It was apparent she had never had to flatter a man. He hoped she would stop trying and sure enough she did. She tried another tack completely. 

“What sort of cases do you -- ” 

“Well-paying ones, mostly.” 

She did not laugh. She drew a little envelope from her clutch and slid it across the table. 

“One hundred dollars. For information on a woman.”

He opened it with interest. A night photo. A blurred figure took up most of the frame. The woman was veiled and she was not facing the camera. In her hair there was a sort of floral adornment. Impossible to make out any detail. Without expression he folded the photograph neatly into a trouser-pocket. 

“You’re giving me a lot to work with, Miss Hresvelg.” 

She nodded once. Her mouth was a thin tense line. “It is a most sensitive matter. I am sure you understand.”

“I don’t,” he said, “and I’m not.” 

She did not laugh. She probably never would. 

For his part he was thinking. She had said her piece so calmly, as if neither the information nor the woman could possibly be of interest to anyone. A hundred dollars meant otherwise. A hundred dollars meant trouble. 

“Mr. Gautier -- I was never here. And I will disclaim any involvement with you, if asked. But I believe the pay commensurate with the danger. Does that -- are you -- ” 

She had been taken in by his silence and now she was bargaining. But there was no need. 

“Relax,” he said. “I’m more afraid of you than the job.”

That surprised her genuinely. Her eyes darted over him once more inconspicuously as she could manage. She was making a reappraisal. He was making one too. 

What was it about her? She was a particularly humorless client but honest vulnerability had flickered upon her face, unconstant, all through their meeting. Now it shone forth like a sudden burst of sun and endeared her to him. 

“Sixty later -- forty now.” 

Wordlessly she looked at him. Her eyes were twin shining amethysts. 

  
  


\--

  
  


The advance was more than enough to cover a night’s tab at Claude’s. For a Thursday it was packed. Sylvain sat and waited and waited some more. He thought of white-haired women and faded photographs as drinks and drinker’s conversation dissolved around him until finally a drawl he knew shook him from his reverie.

“What’ll it be?” 

“You always ask,” Sylvain said. “It never changes.” 

“Any good bartender needs a catchphrase,” said Claude. He slid Sylvain his usual sour. A twist of peel garnished the rim. He’d mixed it as they talked. Sylvain nodded in appreciation and took a long draught.

The lemon was assertive. Claude knew how he liked it.

“I’ve got a job for you, Riegan.”

“All your jobs are jobs for me.”

That Sylvain could not deny. He told Claude about the client and slid him the photograph over the counter for good measure. Claude listened and said nothing. He took the photograph and looked at it evenly for several long moments. Then he frowned.

“You could have gotten more out of her.”

“I couldn’t have gotten a word out of her,” said Sylvain, “not if I’d tried.” 

“No -- financially. It’s not every day you take on a Hresvelg as a client.”

“I’m surprised you know the name.”

“Everyone knows it. Make that much money and news travels fast. The Blaiddyds of -- Boston?”

“Philadelphia, last I checked.”

“ -- Philadelphia, then. East Coast money, same as you.”

Sylvain couldn’t help but laugh. “The Gautiers don’t have that kind of money.” 

“They’ve got enough, though. Enough that a Gautier shouldn’t need to be a private dick. Hard not to wonder about sometimes.”

“Keep wondering,” said Sylvain. “Another glass.”

There were over a dozen bars in Potrero but for all intents and purposes there was really only one. Claude’s _was_ the neighborhood. Every grifter in the city had made its acquaintance. A night here with your ears peeled could blow a case wide open. Sylvain made the rounds. There was a crowd tonight: the singer Dorothea; a new understudy she had brought on a whim; Raphael, who ran the lodge down the street; his newest boarder, a fellow named Ignatz; even a dark-haired man he did not know sitting in the far corner, nursing an old-fashioned. 

The gossip was all useless. The only item of note was that someone was set to acquire the Ferry Building. It was news to the boarder, who worked in the building. The boarder had started a job as county clerk and was knee-deep in census records. Dorothea’s opera was opening. Raphael’s boarders were behaving. Nothing worth remembering. No one recognized the picture. 

Only Dorothea had a lead. The hairpin looked familiar, she said. Her old flatmate had something similar. A former nun by the name of Mercedes von Martritz. Not much of a lead but better than vapor. Certainly all he had to go on. As payment Dorothea wanted him to see her show. He had always meant to go but pretended to consider it. 

“You’ll come and see me, won’t you, Gautier? A pathetic man like you with nothing better to do.” She raised her glass to him as if to toast. 

“I don’t see why you talk to him like that,” said the understudy -- Lorenz -- reproachfully. He was from a good family. He did not fit in. 

“He likes it,” Dorothea said.

“I do.” 

“I don’t see _why,”_ said Lorenz rather petulantly. He was a man who could not understand women. No one could understand why he was at the bar at all. 

At one AM the bar finally began to empty out. At length Sylvain’s attention returned to the man in the corner with the dark hair and bright eyes. As he gazed at him longer he decided he resembled nothing more than a wet cat. Happiness seemed an emotion foreign to him. And he did not want to be disturbed -- one did not have to be a gumshoe to tell. 

Sylvain took the hint. He plucked five fresh bills from his wallet and left them under his glass as a nod to Claude’s continued services. Then he walked home, through empty streets and yellow fog, and passed out on his cot without changing clothes.

  
  
  
\--

  
  


At ten o’clock the next morning he found himself calling on Mercedes von Martritz’s apartment. She let him in at once; she had been expecting him. He had not known what to expect of a former nun but had expected no one so personable. She wore a veil that covered none of the important attributes of her face: neither the smile nor the eyes nor the voice full of song. She insisted he call her Mercedes. She was altogether lovely. She was wasted on a convent. 

Mercedes made him tea while they talked. She had grown up in the church, raised by sisters, and she had always intended to serve. But her presence had brought trouble to Sacred Heart. A specter from her past had come calling. What sort of specter? Here she was loath to provide detail and foolishly he did not press her. It was enough to know that adornment was worn by the nuns. Or he hoped it would be. 

He had meant to stop in on the flat briefly but found himself lingering into the afternoon. As he got up to leave she kissed him on the cheek and his heart stuttered. “Fell and Fillmore,” she said brightly. “You can’t miss it.” 

  
\--

  
He didn’t miss it. Over the intersection of Fell and Fillmore towered Sacred Heart Monastery. Age emanated from its weathered stone. It took up the full city block. What it was doing there in the first place Sylvain didn’t know. The stone stairs carved into the steep hill were smooth and treacherous and climbing them proved no mean feat. At the very top a wrought iron gate with a serpentine motif barred entry. 

Sylvain stood there and waited. Waiting was part of the job. After what felt like an eternity a man with a goatee strode out to meet him. 

This man looked deeply aged yet not aged at all. From his robes and his stature it was clear he was a man of importance. 

“Seteth,” the man said, rather primly. He looked uncomfortable. “I’m afraid visitors are generally -- announced. Particularly -- police.” 

“I’m not with the law.” 

The monk -- Seteth -- looked him over with old thoughtful eyes before nodding just once in agreement. “Perhaps a private investigator. Doubtless you have business here.”

“I might and I might not. Mercedes von Martritz sent me.” 

This surprised Seteth visibly. “Mercedes is your client?” 

“No,” Sylvain said, “she’s got nothing against you. But I’m looking for a woman with flowers in her hair and she told me this was where I’d find her.” 

Seteth smiled at that. On another man it would have been a laugh. 

“Fascinating,” he said, and looked off down Fillmore absently. Then he took Sylvain by the hand and led him through the gate. 

Everyone they came across stared. Sylvain could hardly blame them. You didn’t see a senior monk dragging along a gumshoe every day. Seteth had not lied: there were no visitors at Sacred Heart. Various sisters drifted by in their veils and their flowering hairclips, whispering as they passed. None of them matched the photo. Or perhaps they did and it was impossible to tell. The only person he saw who seemed not to have sworn vows was a haggard man being helped by a small nun. Perhaps he was a supplicant.

In the meanwhile Seteth showed him the grounds. Here was the courtyard. Here a greenhouse for the brothers and sisters interested in botany. There were the fountains and the pond. The monk lit up as he described the rituals of fishing. Sylvain listened with interest and bemusement. He tossed a coin in the pond for luck. When the tour concluded he was almost sorry for it.

“You’ve been awfully gracious.” 

“We are in the business of grace,” said Seteth. “Rhea wants to see you.” It was clear Sylvain didn’t understand. Seteth’s face creased with amusement. Each of his emotions corresponded to a line on his face. “The Mother Superior.” 

  
\--

  
A golden light suffused the abbess’s rooms. Ornate stained-glass patterns decorated a single vast window. The panelling told a story Sylvain did not know. It was open slightly. A woman stood by the window, hands clasped over her robes, her face impassive. Even from behind she had an air of command he could sense. All the lines of the room were drawn to her. A lone white lily adorned her hair. She turned ever so slightly toward them and there it was. The photo’s likeness. It was there. All there.

Seteth bowed twice: slightly to him, deeply to her. Then he was gone, and Sylvain was alone with the Mother Superior. 

He was not a religious man but seeing her he knew God played favorites. She had astonishing seafoam eyes. Imperious curves. He would never have picked her for an abbess in a crowd. Not that abbesses usually made it to crowds. That was good all things considered. A woman like that could do real damage out in the world. 

Then she turned ever so slightly toward him and he saw it: the photo's likeness, plain as day.

“So you’re Gautier,” said Rhea, huskier than an abbess had any right to be. “Seteth told me about you. I’ve been expecting a lackey for some time now, really, so it’s no shock.“

“I’m not sure what you mean,” he said truthfully.

“Drop the act. It’s the girl, isn’t it? You’re here on her behalf.”

Sylvain eyed her. She did not mean Mercedes.

“I wouldn’t be much of a detective if I told you all about my client.”

“I suppose she did a little number on you. The damsel-in-distress routine.” 

“She wasn’t very distressed for a damsel.”

Rhea laughed. She looked Sylvain over with newfound respect. 

“Probably said she wanted information. She’s a damn liar. She wants the sword.” 

“I don’t know anything about a sword,” he said slowly.

She laughed again, this time for longer. This laugh was no meek thing. It was harsh and guttural and wild.

“That girl’s something else. I tell my enemies more than she does her friends.” 

He did not argue the point.

“I’ll show you,” said Rhea. She led him through hallways and hallways. She led him through twisting passageways to a room full of dust. 

It was an armory, or a shrine, or something in between. Weapons of great age and unknown provenance lined the walls. One such weapon caught his eye immediately. It was no ordinary sword. The blade was serrated. The hilt was carved in an ornate pattern he had never seen. A great doom seemed to be upon it. 

Rhea followed his gaze. “So you did know.” 

“I’m a good guesser.” 

“Hm,” said Rhea. She took it down from the wall and practically threw it into his arms. It was sturdier than it looked. Gold flecks peeled carelessly off the handle and blade. Holding it he could imagine himself a swordsman in another time. He continued to hold it. An indentation in the hilt was there, strange enough to draw attention. It would have fit something the size of an egg. As he held the hilt longer the imaginings wavered and suddenly warped into terrible things: war, famine, ravines and rivers of red. Sylvain shuddered. He handed it back. 

“That thing’s trouble for anyone it touches.” 

Rhea accepted it without complaint. Coolly she lifted it. 

“Seiros herself wielded this in the Crusades. Our order has safekept it for centuries.” Her sea-green eyes shone bright on the steel. In them there seemed to be fondness. Perhaps even pride. “Insolent girl. Thinking a holy relic is a family heirloom.” Then she swept the blade toward the floor in one cutting fluid motion. He barely saw it move. This woman knew more than one way to fell a man. 

“I don’t know much about it,” said Sylvain. 

“You know enough,” said Rhea. “You know not to trust Edelgard _."_

She spat this last part like a curse. 

  
  


\--

  
  


On the way out of the monastery he ran back into the haggard man. His eyes were sunken into the pits of his face. His presence was commanding. In another life he could have been a politician or a general. In this one something dreadful had befallen him. 

“He wants to tell you something.” 

It was the nun from earlier. She had mint-green curls and barely came up to his elbows. She was clutching his hand brightly. She was not scared of him at all. “He says -- that you’re being followed, I think. By someone. Or something, I’m not sure.“

“I’d like more details,” said Sylvain, “if you will.” 

The haggard man looked at him. A matted shock of hair obscured one eye. The other was bright and awful. Sylvain looked at it until he could look no longer. This seemed to please the haggard man. 

“Be careful,” the man said, in a voice hoarse from disuse. His lone eye gleamed. Then he turned away. 

  
  


\--

He called his client that afternoon and told her most of the details. He was careful not to mention the sword. She sounded tired and slightly annoyed but thanked him all the same. The forty dollars would be in his account by the morrow. She thanked him for his time. He thanked her for the money. After a final couple of stilted exchanges he hung up and thought for a long moment. 

It was odd to feel so strongly he was missing something crucial. Sylvain mixed himself three highballs and drank them. He skimmed the paper. No news except that the Ferry deal had gone through with a picture of a sallow-looking man to go with it. Nothing at all about a sword. He sighed out loud and tried to convince himself it would turn up in the wash. He washed his pony-glasses and put them away and took them out again. At length he realized it had become seven-thirty and Dorothea’s show would start within the hour, whereupon he got in his Plymouth and floored it to Van Ness.

The opera was packed like sardines. It was opening night and Manuela Casagranda was headlining. Posters of her lined the hall. Her North American debut, they said. Somehow he’d forgotten. Sylvain weaved through the upper balconies and their velvet seats looking for a place to sit until a gaze stopped him in his tracks halfway through the third row of seats. 

It was the man from Claude’s. His dark hair was tied back in a bun. Anger radiated from every pore of his body. Sylvain couldn’t stop looking at him. 

“May I sit here?”

“Suit yourself,” said the man irritably. 

“You’re from the other night -- Claude’s -- I never caught your name.”

“No,” said the man. “You didn’t.” 

Up close he looked like a panther, sleek and black. He felt dangerous in a way Sylvain was not familiar with. He looked at Sylvain with violent eyes. On women that expression meant desire. On men it meant hatred. Here he was not sure which. 

  
  


\--

  
  


Sylvain had never seen Tosca. From what he could glean the plot went as follows: Tosca, the singer, loved the painter Cavaradossi. Scarpia, the corrupt police chief, desired her. He was corrupt and would stop at nothing to claim her. Tosca, knowing this, formulated a plan. And then tragedy struck.

It was torrid. It was an opera plot. He spotted Dorothea as a village girl in the first act and then again in the chorus. He did not look for the understudy. One thing only was on his mind. At intermission he strode outside and found the man in the turtleneck.

“You don’t seem to like me very much,” he said, “and there’s no harm in that, but for whatever I’ve done to offend you, I’d like to apologize.”

The man shuddered. Then he turned away. 

“You’ve done nothing wrong,” he said. “I just don’t like your client.” 

Sylvain’s answer surprised himself. “I don’t either," he said. "But she's paying good money.” 

The man let out a short bark. “Money!” he said darkly. “She would -- she’s got enough of that.” He appraised Sylvain once more. The open hostility was gone from his eyes, replaced by something else. He had a secret and he wanted to spit it out. They were alone on the balcony. Indistinct chatter wafted from below. Again Sylvain waited. He knew when to wait. 

“What do you know about Dimitri Blaiddyd?” said the man. 

Sylvain thought about it carefully. He took a long draught of his glass and thought more. 

“Not very much,” he admitted. “His widow’s rich. What of it?” 

This was not the response the man had been expecting. He looked at him in disbelief. 

“That’s really all you know.” 

“Do I look like a man who’s not telling the truth?”

“You wouldn’t know truth if it slapped you in the face.”

Sylvain stared at him. Then he laughed. “You’re a riot. I never knew a riot could be so mean. Give me your name.” 

The man looked at him. His eyes glittered unspeakably. “Fraldarius,” he said. “Felix Fraldarius.” 

  
\--  
  


The second half of Tosca went by more slowly than the first. This was due to no fault of the plot but rather human error. He could not stop thinking of the man seated next to him. Only the ending recaptured his attention. Caravadossi’s death scene. Whoever was playing him was quite the actor. He staggered out on stage for a couple steps, fell to the floor and writhed to rapturous applause. As the curtain fell Sylvain’s attention snapped to his seatmate like a drawn string. Soon they were at the bar downstairs nursing two stiff drinks and talking. Or at least Sylvain was.

“I liked Caravadossi,” said Sylvain, “liked that little routine when he died -- convincing.” 

“Hm.” 

“You know, you’ve barely touched your drink.”

Another scowl. “Drink it yourself if you care so much.”

“I think I will,” said Sylvain, and did. It was a full glass of peat whiskey and it burned like hell on the way down. “You’re scowling, Fraldarius. Can I call you Felix?” 

“I don’t give a damn what you call me.” 

Sylvain was starting to enjoy that scowl.

It was raining sheets as they walked down Gough. Wet lamplight flooded the pavement. Fraldarius knew how to navigate the crowd. His eyes shifted ceaselessly left to right. He turned into alleyways without explanation. At length he stopped abruptly and muttered into Sylvain’s ear:

“We’re being followed.” 

They were. They had walked quickly and with purpose to prevent that very possibility. But they had not succeeded. Felix Fraldarius was a wary man and Sylvain was no slouch and each felt the man’s presence: a spectre trailing them some thirty yards back, receding into smoke when either sought him out.

"He's no amateur," muttered Sylvain. “We can’t shake him -- we’d better blend in.” 

“Got any ideas?” 

“Maybe,” Sylvain said. He grabbed Felix by the wrist and booked it up the street to the brasserie. A crowd was forming as it always did after the show. He maneuvered them through the throng as if to enter. At the last moment he stepped expertly behind a fighting couple and pushed Felix against the alley wall in one deft motion. Here it was raining and dark and no one could make out their faces. But that was not his only plan. 

Felix looked up at him. His eyes burned like embers.

Sylvain had one more idea. Almost experimental. He bent down. Felix looked up at him. His body was jagged like knives. Tense and on edge. He kissed like someone who hadn’t been kissed in a long time. Like someone hungry for it. Sylvain did not know how long they stood there for. Only the steady patter of rain and the murmur of the bar reminded him that time was passing. 

“Are we still being followed?” he asked, finally, after minutes of this.

Felix said nothing. His eyes were wide and they flickered over Sylvain as if asking a question. Then he leaned forward again.

  
  


\--

  
  


At seven o’clock the next morning Sylvain woke up to a loud rap on his door. It was followed by a flurry of raps that conveyed urgency. He recognized those raps. They could mean nothing good. One bleary squint through the blinds conveyed the picture well enough. A squadron car parked on the street. Outside his door an officer standing impatiently. 

Not just any officer. Sylvain knew that cropped blonde hair well. He shuffled down the stairs two at a time and opened the door in his bedclothes. 

“Galatea. To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

The captain scowled. “Drop the formalities. You know why I’m here.” 

“I don’t, actually,” said Sylvain. It was true, though he had a guess. 

Captain Ingrid Galatea looked at him and sighed as if talking to an infant. The captain had an unimpeachable sense of justice and as much give to her as a wooden plank. She had kept her nose to the grindstone for eight years to get this job and had cleaned house the moment she took it. No one wanted to be on her bad side. From the way she was looking at him now he figured he might be. 

“You’re wanted at the station,” the captain said, “on suspicion of murder.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry i read the maltese falcon and the big sleep and then i tripped and fell and this happened... thanks to mz for not tossing me out a window and also i think like literally having the original idea??
> 
> i don't like chaptered shit so this will end Soon don't worry... i mostly published it to pressure myself 
> 
> [if u liked this u can [rt it here](https://twitter.com/letrasette/status/1237976080989818880)!]


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who Did Sylvain Kill? Did He Kill Things?? Let's Find Out!

**II.**

  
The captain refused to answer questions in the ride over. She believed in protocol wholeheartedly and such a thing would be against protocol. Only at the detention center did she become willing to converse. Ingrid rapped the glass.

“I don’t suppose you’ll remind me who I killed.”

She sighed. He had heard that sigh dozens of times. “Gloucester -- Lorenz Hellman Gloucester. An understudy at the opera. Time of death eleven PM sharp.”

It rung a bell. “I met that guy,” Sylvain said thoughtfully. “The day before. Annoying guy.” 

The captain sighed again. “That gives you motive.” 

Sylvain laughed. “Motive? I guess it does -- guess it did.” He shifted in the chair. It protested mightily under his weight. “Alright, Galatea. You’ve got your man.” 

“It’s Captain to you,” she said, with no force in it. She had known Sylvain since they were in academy together. She’d graduated valedictorian and Sylvain had stopped going. “I’ll accept your confession just as soon as you tell me what you know about the crime.” 

“Then we might be at an impasse. I’m awfully forgetful.” 

She scowled at him openly. “Stab wound through the chest, Gautier. I’ll level with you -- I don’t think you did it. But you saw it just fine. You and everyone else watching the finale.” 

“You can’t mean -- ” 

“Gloucester was playing Caravadossi’s double. When he fell to the floor -- that was real.” 

Sylvain closed his eyes. That acting job had been too good and now he knew why. Now he opened them and looked at her closely. “I don’t know anything about it,” he said, which was true.

“You don’t,” the captain said, “but it’s your mess, though I can’t see how.” She was watching him like a hawk. “The weapon was -- unconventional. And it had your prints all over it.”

“Lying doesn’t suit you.”

“I don’t lie,” said the captain. “Not about things like this.” 

She slid the photos under the glass divider. 

They were gruesome. They told a vivid tale. Planted squarely in the understudy’s chest was that monstrous sword he’d seen at the monastery and held with his own two hands.

Sylvain exhaled. 

He told her about the sword. He told her about the client and the strange visit to the monastery and the night at the opera and being followed on his way home. He left out certain details: the haggard man, what Rhea had said to him about Edelgard von Hresvelg. He left out Felix Fraldarius altogether. 

Ingrid frowned at his story. She excused herself for a minute. The minute stretched into five and a few more. Against all odds he managed to fall asleep in the chair when the door slamming re-alerted him to her presence. She was livid.

“You look well.” 

“That woman -- Rhea. She’s gone missing.”

“Really," said Sylvain. Why was he not surprised? 

Ingrid frowned deeply and bit her lip. She was thinking quickly. “Gautier. You need to find the culprit -- and soon. Or I’ll have to lock you up and I won’t have any choice about it.” 

He chuckled at that. He couldn’t help it. 

“That’s a lie -- a real one. You’re too lawful by half; you’d never wrongfully convict a man.” 

“But you know something,” she said, green eyes glinting at him through the glass. 

“I might and I might not.” He threw his hands up. “I’ll investigate it my way and find your guy and we’ll be right as rain. Don’t worry.”

“Sylvain -- “

“Don’t,” he said. “Alright? I won’t worry someone so beautiful.” 

It had the intended effect. He had never seen an expression change so utterly from concern to contempt. 

“Me, Gautier? You’d really try?” 

“I’m just stating a fact,” he said, which was true. She was beautiful but he could never be attracted to her; she believed entirely too much in the rule of law. And then there was the matter of the man with the eyes.

  
  
\--

  
  


All afternoon Sylvain thought about the sword. Come evening he invited Dorothea up to his place. She came without complaint. Her eyes were puffy and swollen. He poured his finest scotch in a snifter and handed it over. 

She thanked him and took a sip. As she did she started shaking. Then she started talking. 

The opera troupe had found the body. He’d just been filling in. He’d had a promising career ahead of him. He was the first cousin of a baron who was threatening the company about it none too subtly. It was an utter scandal and Manuela Casagranda didn’t want it publicized. People thought she was involved. Dorothea didn’t want it publicized either. It was awful, just awful. It could have been anyone. 

There Sylvain interrupted her. 

“That’s not true. Give me something to work with.” 

She glared at him. She had finally stopped crying on her third glass and attained a sort of fatalistic composure. “Whatever for?” 

“I’m investigating your case. Wasn’t it obvious?” 

“Then you’re not concerned at me at all -- just your little mystery.”

“And you’re putting words in my mouth.”

“But they’re _true_ words,” she insisted. She insisted with perfect affront and Sylvain would have believed her if he had not seen the corners of her mouth twitch in an ever-present tell. Dorothea was dangerous. Before they had met he had seen one of her shows and had thought her a born actor. Someone who could play a role on- and off-stage. And then making her acquaintance he had known himself to be right. 

“As true as yours,” he said, and she laughed, and the danger passed. “Tell me the truth. You’ve got to suspect somebody.”

“It really isn’t like that. There’s no one it could have been.” She was drinking more now. Ordinarily he might have cut her off but tonight he needed information. “Our troupe is tight-knit -- no one would dream of it. We’ve sung together for years.”

“An extra, then.”

Dorothea hesitated. He was onto something. “Even the extras -- they’ve been practicing with us for weeks, they’ve done so well -- ”

“If you had to guess,” said Sylvain. 

“Emile,” she said, without hesitation. “The stunt guy. We got him through the same agency as Petra -- V-something -- and he's always seemed shifty. But that doesn’t mean -- he wouldn’t possibly -- I don't know. It could have been anyone.” She stared into the bottom of her glass. 

“It could have been me,” said Sylvain. He held his glass up to her. It, too, was empty. “Shall we to Claude’s?” 

Dorothea looked at him in disbelief. 

“You think you’re funny. You think he’d be open after what happened to his lover boy?” 

“Come again?” said Sylvain. “Wait -- Gloucester?”

Her mouth opened and closed hardly of her own accord. 

“You didn’t know. You really didn’t know? I’ll be damned.”

“I never know who Claude goes in for.”

“It’s better that way.” She made a face. “I’ve got to go out there and perform next week. As if nothing ever happened. Can you imagine?”

“You were stunning, if it’s any consolation.” 

Now she looked at him. Her eyes were dancing. “Say, Gautier -- shall I stay the night?”

“No,” he said. “I won’t have that on my conscience.” 

“That makes two of us,” she said, and yawned. "Don’t misunderstand. I don’t want a damn thing from you except your chaise -- it’s terribly comfortable.” 

“Do whatever you want,” he said, indifferent as he could, “but I won’t be around.” 

Her head snapped like a whip.

“You’re seeing someone?” 

“For work -- the case -- no more than that.”

“The man from the bar,” Dorothea said confidently. Sylvain felt his face warm. He told her about the conversation at the opera. He told her about Felix Fraldarius in no detail at all. Then he stopped and saw her eyes shining at him. 

“You really think it’s work,” she said. Her voice bordered upon admiration. 

  
  


\--

  
  


Felix Fraldarius lived in Noe Valley, in a three-story townhouse at the top of an impossibly steep hill. Sylvain’s car nearly gave out twice on the way there. It was quiet as he remembered. Quiet and still. From the neighboring gardens a faint smell of lemon carried. 

A lion with a ring in its mouth stared him down from the door. Sylvain rapped it twice. At length it creaked open.

“Come in,” said Felix. 

Sylvain came in. He fell into the nearest armchair and began to survey the place. It was austere as he had imagined. High white walls with gold trim. Barely a furnishing anywhere save for the sitting-room. 

He could not for his life imagine Felix decorating this room; it more closely resembled some antique storage chamber or even a museum. Sumptuous tapestries lined its walls. On the largest a lion was fighting an eagle tooth and claw. Age hung from it palpably. Curios adorned the room in cases and cabinets. Everything was covered in dust. 

“Those aren’t mine.”

“I figured,” said Sylvain. “Care to explain?”

Felix scowled. “So they’re someone else’s.”

In their short acquaintance Sylvain had begun to understand his variety of scowls and what they meant. This scowl had no true temper in it but an edge. Why? 

A guess rose to mind, unbidden.

“Then -- Blaiddyd’s?”

Felix did not flinch. In fact he was perfectly still. Right on the money.

“I don’t know the first thing about that man,” Sylvain said, very carefully, “and I was hoping that you did.” 

At that Felix looked at him sharply. 

All at once they were interrupted by a knock at the door. Another. Then a series of identical raps, the very same as this morning. Felix went to the window with suspicion. Not Sylvain; he knew what to expect. 

He walked down the half-landing and let the captain in at a leisurely pace. Ingrid barely acknowledged him. Nor did she enter the house. She just stood on the step letting in cold night air. 

“Good evening, gentlemen. Might I ask what you two are discussing?” 

Her tone was purposefully light but a storm was brewing. 

“You might,” said Sylvain. 

Ingrid sucked in her cheeks. She was struggling to be diplomatic. It was a rare sight. 

“I’d like to know what business you could possibly have here.” 

“Funny you should ask,” he said. “I’m not here on business.” 

“Don’t lie to me. Are you his co-conspirator?”

“Come off it, Ingrid,” said Sylvain. “You know it wasn’t me. Why do you think it was him?” 

Ingrid gave him a look. She thought he was playing dumb. When she saw his confusion was genuine her expression softened very slightly. Then it hardened again. 

“You don’t know the first thing about that man.” 

Felix Fraldarius’s demeanor had transformed entirely the moment the captain stepped into the room. He looked like a cat with its hackles up. He was eyeing her with visceral hatred. For her part she looked at him with disdain and distrust. 

“What have you got on him that I don’t?”

“Sylvain, he killed Dimitri Blaiddyd,” Ingrid said harshly. “Who says he didn’t kill your guy?”

The accusation did nothing to Felix at all. It almost seemed to bore him. 

The same could not be said of Sylvain. 

“He killed Blaiddyd?” 

“The man disappeared ten years ago,” said Ingrid. “Disappeared and hasn’t turned up to this day. My officers looked into it thoroughly -- combed it over. Everything points to him but it’s too damn circumstantial to convict -- for now.” She turned to Felix. Her eyes were narrowed. “Give it up, Fraldarius. There’s still time. Cut a plea bargain and you’ll be out in twenty if I feel generous.”

Now Felix looked up at her slowly, as if only remembering she were there once addressed by name.

“Your officers,” he said, voice barbed with condescension. “Idiots and amateurs. Paid off to fuck up. It’s been ten years and you still think I’d kill Dimitri?” 

“Nine and a half,” she said. “You’re not past the statute of limitations -- yet.” Her eyes hardened. “I liked Blaiddyd. I’ll find out how you killed him.”

 _“You_ liked him,” said Felix. His tone was incredulous. “What a joke.” 

“You’re a joke,” the captain spat. She’d had enough of the two of them. “You killed your husband for money and you haven’t a lick of shame about it.” 

An ice-cold anger had settled upon her face. She turned and strode off down the lawn and into the night. In her wake there stretched a long silence only broken by the sounds of her departure: key revving the ignition, tires peeling down the road.

“You heard her,” said Felix coolly. He radiated complete indifference. “I killed him. Or is that not enough for you?” 

Sylvain’s mind was racing. He looked him over. He was small and lithe and Sylvain did not doubt he could fight. The Blaiddyd inheritance was substantial. Men did not disappear without reason into the dead of night. But it was all wrong. 

“If you killed a man you wouldn’t lie about it.”

Felix stared at him. Then he began to pace.

“Something wrong?” 

“You’re what’s wrong,” snapped Felix. “I don’t understand you. You don’t think I did it and you don’t know a damn thing about me.”

“But I’d like to.”

Felix continued pacing as if he had not heard anything. Only the sudden curl of his knuckles gave him away. When he finally spoke it was with an odd hesitancy. 

“Earlier. Were you lying, when you said...” 

He was unwilling or unable to finish the thought. But Sylvain had a guess.

“That I wasn’t here on business? Does it matter?”

“Yes,” said Felix simply. 

Sylvain had not been expecting that. Neither the interruption nor the response. Perhaps it was best to tell the truth. 

“I was,” said Sylvain, “and I wasn’t, in a way.” 

Felix scowled. It was a curious scowl: it seemed to double as a flush.

“Reprobate,” he said, and grabbed him by the collar. 

  
  


\--

  
  


It came out in bits and pieces as they lay on Felix’s bed. The Blaiddyds had made their fortune in shipping and railroads around the turn of the century. Now they were in decline but still unimaginably wealthy. A rotten crowd. None of them were worth a damn except Dimitri. Dimitri had never been interested in the family business. He’d wanted to move somewhere far away -- to forests and snow and a crackling hearth. Dimitri had always liked the cold and Felix hadn't cared. All that mattered was they were going to travel and get away from it all.

Sylvain listened closely. He listened to what Felix said and how he said it. To the name lingering on his tongue and the bitterness with it.

All that had changed ten years ago. The Blaiddyds had lived in a palatial three-block complex in Pacific Heights. Practically a castle. You could see all of San Francisco from that roof. He and Dimitri had used to stand there, looking out over the rooftops of the town, dreaming... 

Until the place burned down completely. Dimitri hadn’t been home. Neither had Felix. That day ten years ago, when they had pulled up to the gate, they had seen -- 

“Bodies.” Felix’s voice was a rasp in the dark. Even so Sylvain could hear the horror in it. “Dozens carried away on stretchers. The fire department -- was too late. And Dimitri -- ” 

There had been a midwinter bonfire gone awry. No foul play was suspected. The mansion was made of wood and not up to regulations. Dimitri didn’t believe it. The Blaiddyds had enemies and police could be bought. In his mind it was arson and Felix could not dissuade him.

For some months they went on like this. Dimitri did not eat. He did not talk. It had not been easy to watch. Here Felix’s voice dwindled to a ravaged whisper. Dimitri would not speak and when he did he spoke only of revenge. He became a shell of himself. And after some time he disappeared completely. 

In the silence that followed a lone cricket chirped bravely from the street. Sylvain stubbed out his cigarette. Now it was truly dark. 

“And he’s alive,” Felix said, suddenly. “I’d know if he weren’t. If he -- I’d know. That beast.” 

An odd thought occurred to Sylvain then, hearing all this from the man cradled in his arms. Odd and obvious both at once. 

“He’s a monster,” said Felix. “He’s going to kill someone.”

The thought was that Felix still loved him.

“For his twisted idea of revenge.” 

And probably always would.

Why else would he still bleed?

“He’s an animal -- ”

Sylvain couldn’t bear it. He kissed him long and slow. Felix’s eyes shone up at him. He was startled. Then the planes of his body relaxed. 

Sylvain held him close and waited. He waited some more. Here was someone who had never stopped fighting and who you could disarm with a touch. Felix was very still. Too still. Suddenly he buried his face in Sylvain’s shirt and let out a piercing cry. 

Was it odd for him to be in this position? 

Perhaps. After all he knew nothing of love. For years he had wasted himself on liquor and women and now he knew nothing of that honest emotion as a corollary or simply a direct result. But he knew about pain and so this he could manage. And he felt like he was starting to know Felix. 

  
  


\--

  
  


In the morning Sylvain dialed Ingrid. He meant to apologize. She apologized first. 

“Get in here, Gautier. I need you to investigate.” 

“What?” he said, mouth full of toast. 

“And I’m sorry.” A sigh over the line. “I shouldn’t have -- I didn’t really think it was you, but -- look. Floor it, alright?“

Sylvain was catching on. 

“There’s been another murder?” 

Dial tone. Ingrid never was one to humor him. He stood there and thought. By the time he stopped the second piece of toast was charred dead in the burner. 

The precinct station was oddly quiet. This was because, as it turned out, there had been not a murder but a suicide. Ignatz Victor, government clerk, age twenty-five, boarder in the lodge down the street. A part-time painter with no close relatives. He’d left an empty pill bottle and a note on his desk. 

“I knew that guy too,” Sylvain said, with unpleasant _deja vu._ “One of Raphael’s boarders.”

“That man didn’t kill himself,” said Ingrid. “I’m sure of it.”

“It’s very clean,” he agreed. “You don’t figure I killed him?”

“We staked out Fraldarius’s place all night. You never left.”

“I don’t know how to feel about that,” he said honestly.

“I don’t care how you feel.” Ingrid rolled her eyes. “I’ve told Raphael you’re coming. As for us -- the official police investigation is over. Legally this is a suicide. Unless you disprove it.” 

“Unorthodox for you, Captain. Sure your guys can’t handle this one?” 

Ingrid looked at him as though she had chewed something rotten. 

“Sylvain,” she said patiently. “I may be police, but I am not stupid. This is all the law can do. Which is why I am turning to you. Solve this case. Do not fuck this up.”

He opened his mouth to reply. Ingrid was faster. She shut her door. 

With nothing else to do he got on to Gough and Webster. It was morning and the streets were empty: he ran every light. Raphael was waiting for him outside. Somber was not a good look for him. Every line of his face was creased and creased double. It was clear he had been crying. He liked Raphael; it was a shame to see him like this.

Raphael led him wordlessly down the entrance hall and motioned him to the first room on the right. It seemed he could not bear to enter. Sure enough Ignatz was there, dead-eyed, spread-eagled in his bed. The note was short and sweet. The pill bottle was empty. Sylvain nodded once and Raphael left. Then he began overturning things in earnest. 

After a while he caught it -- the scent of bitter almond. Just a whiff but enough. Like a bloodhound he tracked it through the room until finding the source. A crumpled envelope at the bottom of the wastebin. RETURN POSTAGE PAID, it said. It was strongest at the lip of the thing.

Curious.

The letter it had contained, too, was in the wastebin, though it could only be pieced together with effort. Someone had shredded it and shredded it well. It was an illicit proposition of some kind. The letter-writer had wanted Ignatz to fudge something in the records. It had been sent to his office in the Ferry Building. The census office, then. At that very moment Sylvain heard a floorboard creak from outside the room. 

“Raphael?”

There was no response. Peering into the hallway he saw nothing. Had he heard wrong? 

No matter. He had a lead to go on now. But first he wanted to hear from an old friend. 

\--

He stopped by his office first. The friend could wait. Or so he figured.

It was a mistake though he had no way to know that at the time. The foggiest morning he'd ever seen -- zero visibility -- traffic at a standstill. Sylvain stared at the winking yellow light and waited. The wind battered his car in waves of fog and in that fog he imagined all sorts of shapes. Images from the past. Ten years ago. No. Before.

In Boston, on Newbury, the old home. A string of governesses each meaner than the last. Blood on the floor and his face stinging. No use in remembering that now. Onward. Onward to the cross country drive and setting up shop. Meeting Ingrid in academy. Ingrid and her outstretched hand. A slew of cases. Women. Drink. He had moved out here to avoid a kind of filth and stepped into another and over time it had consumed him and claimed him as its own. Even when he no longer took cases the filth remained. And for a time he had given into it wholly.

Now there was a new face in the fog. This one was different. It fixed him with coal black eyes and a bright angry stare. Sure it was angry but everyone was angry with him and even the anger hit differently. It was angry for him. Do better, it seemed to say. Be better. I don’t give a damn about your excuses. Then the horns blared behind him and the light turned green and Sylvain jolted awake and slammed the gas.

How long since a face had haunted him so?

  
  


\--

  
  


As he approached his office Sylvain had a premonition. He could not say how. It was just there. He turned the key in the lock slowly and with trepidation. When the key clicked he took one step back and reached a hand in his pocket just in case. Then he kicked it open.

No one was waiting for him. That was the good news. 

The office was ruined. Trashed in every way imaginable. Someone had flung acid everywhere, on the chaise longue and the bookshelves and even the books. Now that was cruel. The Turkish rug in the middle of the room was slashed up and slashed neat in half. It had been a gift from a client and a very good rug and he was sorry to see it go like this. All the papers on his desk had been strewn unceremoniously on the floor and trampled. And now the phone was ringing which did not seem a coincidence. 

Sylvain walked up to his desk and the ringing phone. He picked it up. On the other end of a line a voice he did not recognize answered him. 

"Well, well."

That voice made every hair stand on the back of his neck.

"Private investigator Sylvain Gautier investigating the disappearance of Dimitri Blaiddyd. And here I thought you only took cases for money."

"Tell me more about me," said Sylvain. "I'm listening."

A mirthless laugh rattled down the line. "They say you're a lout who chases women and the bottom of a bottle. That you've been a private dick for so long you're sick of it but you don't know when to quit. "

"Very good. Got any more?"

"That you take cases for dames and money and nothing in between." 

"You know I didn't think my client was telling the truth," said Sylvain, pleasantly, even as he twisted his neck to glance through the blinds and shutter them. "Didn't think she'd really got a friend who knew me."

"She was," the man rasped. "She's a terrible liar."

"You tore up my office. I take it you didn't call to say hello."

"You're right," said the man. "I called to tell you to stop investigating. You're in for a world of hurt if you keep going. Whatever Fraldarius is paying you, it's not enough."

"I hate to break it to you, but that's not why I take cases."

"It’s why anyone takes cases. Was a hundred dollars not enough for you? You could have asked for more. Though I don't suppose you need the money, _Gautier_." 

"I don't need it," said Sylvain, "as you know."

The man was finally annoyed. "Then what do you need?"

"Answers," said Sylvain, and hung up. 

  
  


\--

In a barely trafficked corner of Hayes Valley there was a bookstore with a drab green door you would miss if you blinked. It was an unusual store in its own right -- in many ways more like a library -- but Sylvain was not there for the store. He knocked just once with purpose. In no time horn-rimmed glasses flashed at him through the mail slot.

“Come in, then,” said Linhardt. “You’re late.” 

If Hevring & Sons was a strange store Linhardt von Hevring was its even stranger proprietor. He slept most hours of the day and rarely opened to customers. In truth his specialty was not business but information. He was not keen to broker it -- too much trouble and too much profile -- but he had met Sylvain on assignment some years ago and taken a liking to him, which was why he had agreed to meet on no notice today. 

Now in the back room of his shop Sylvain described all that had befallen him: Edelgard von Hresvelg, the photograph and the sword, the visit to the monastery, Felix and Dimitri. Linhardt listened to Sylvain’s tale with interest. By the end he was hooked.

“That Rhea told you the truth about the sword,” he said, looking at Sylvain closely through horn-rimmed glasses. “Save one thing. The stone in the sword -- that’s the value of the thing. A ruby the size of an egg.” 

“I thought it was the sword in the stone,” said Sylvain.

“Not this time,” said Linhardt. He stood up and began to rummage. A short while later he returned and handed it to Sylvain: a faded photograph of a stone with a strange pattern etched into it. 

It was breathtaking. Even through the photograph he could see that. 

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” said Linhardt. “Terrible, too. And red as the blood spilt for it -- so they say.” He hummed. “A relic of that value… Miss Hresvelg may mean to sell it, if she is sensible. She wishes to rebuild her family’s standing. Much has been taken from her.” 

“Taken from her?” 

“In a sense.” Unconsciously Linhardt reached for a figurine on his desk and began to twirl it. A little black figure of an eagle. “The Hresvelgs have been torn apart by infighting. They no longer have the influence they once did -- their star has waned.” 

Sylvain watched the eagle spin. “I’d wager she wants to change that.” 

“Then the Stone -- it is rightfully hers?”

“Good heavens, no. I wouldn’t say that.” 

“Whose is it, then?”

“Who owns anything in this town?” The eagle stopped spinning. “The Blaiddyds got ahold of it somehow. They hadn’t a clue of its real value -- not that they’d ever sell it, mind. But their possessions were lost in that fire… although…. hm,” he said, looking at Sylvain closely. His face was bookish and observant. In another life he would have made an excellent detective. “Well then. You see how this fits together, I’m sure.” 

“You’re sure.”

“Don’t be daft.” Linhardt’s eyes glinted beneath his glasses. He spoke now almost to himself. “Miss Hresvelg… old money seeking to reclaim her standing… and yet I rather doubt she wants to sell. Can I ask you something? Why are you taking this case? I can’t imagine Fraldarius is paying you.”

“He’s not,” said Sylvain, and stood abruptly. 

Night was falling. Threads were closing. He needed to get to the Ferry Building immediately. The answers to his questions would be there, if they were anywhere. 

  
  


\--

  
  


Ignatz Victor’s office was on the fifth floor. Sylvain had pocketed the keys off the body. With a click of the lock he was in. 

So this was a census clerk’s office. It was more of a storage closet than an office. Papers in folders lined every square inch of the place. Records upon records of every man who had ever stood under the San Francisco sun. Genealogies and dates of birth. A broker’s dream. 

Sylvain got to work. 

Ignatz had been an organized man. Everything was alphabetized. This meant he could find anything immediately as long as he knew what to look for. What that was was unclear. On a hunch he made straight for the H’s. Hresvelg. A finely detailed genealogy. Edelgard had nine siblings. All were dead. She’d had a rough go of things. Now for the B’s. Blaiddyd. Many of these names shared the same date of death and cause. DECEMBER 13 -- 19XX. ACCIDENT (OTHER - FIRE). That day ten years ago, surely. 

Dimitri was here, too, but MISSING. So was someone else. Sylvain frowned. He went back to the other folder, just to check. Dimitri’s father’s -- second wife, missing from the same day as the fire. And over there, in the Hresvelg file, the same name, underlined in red pen, a question mark in the margin. 

Ignatz had done all the work for him. The same name. The same date of birth. Not presumed dead. Not missing. Evidently very alive.

The click of a loaded gun. 

Sylvain didn’t move. He’d been in this spot before. One usually shouldn’t move. 

“The man from the opera,” he said instead, “the one who followed us -- that was you, wasn’t it?”

No response. Not like he’d expected one. Keep talking. Buy time. Mostly for himself. He had found the final dots and it was time to connect them. 

“Ignatz Victor sent the letter to you. Not the other way around. You strongly recommended he unsee what he saw.” 

“Go on,” said the voice. It was raspy and low and not unamused. 

Was it the man from the telephone?

Well, of course it was. Sylvain tried to imagine his face. Came up with something gangly and sallow. Kept talking. 

“But he wasn’t that sort of man. You found that out quickly. And then you needed to get rid of him.” 

“I did,” said the voice. Not a confirmation. Merely going along. 

“The return postage. He licked the envelope and that’s how you got him. You couldn’t have anyone knowing that Patricia Blaiddyd was a Hresvelg -- is a Hresvelg. She’s alive, isn’t she? The very same?”

The voice laughed. There was genuine mirth in it, which made it in no way less unsettling. Then a loud crack. Vision swimming.

Then -- nothing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the next chapter will be the last! i think! stay tuned for murdery updates! 
> 
> and thanks for reading [head in hands]
> 
> [if u liked this u can [rt it here](https://twitter.com/letrasette/status/1237976080989818880) !]


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the finale!

Sylvain had never gotten used to waking up with his hands tied. This was the first time they had been tied to someone else. Immediately he looked behind him and swore loudly at who he saw.

“You’re awake,” said Felix. 

He looked grim and worse for wear. Had he been in a fight?

No time to think about that. Sylvain shivered. It was cold. And he could see -- for miles. Thousands of lights dotting one side of the land. Thick fog on the other, punctuated by passing boats. The pier, then. The water. By the bay -- but where exactly?

“You’re on top of the Ferry Building.” 

That voice was not Felix’s. It was the voice from before. From Ignatz Victor’s office and the ringing phone.

And now it was prattling on. 

“Savor the view. It’s the last you’ll ever see.” 

With some effort Sylvain turned to look at the source of the voice. It surprised him to find that the man looked exactly how he had imagined. Like a -- wicked butler, or a giant bat.

“You again,” said Sylvain. “Why’s Felix here?”

The man leered at him in response. “Isn’t it obvious? He came for you.”

Sylvain looked at Felix sharply. Felix’s face said nothing. If anything it lost all expression. 

Then the bastard really had! 

“Two loose ends in one evening,” said the mysterious man in his horrible rasp of a voice. “My lucky night.”

Expression returned to Felix’s face now, but not one Sylvain was familiar with. Hatred didn’t seem to cut it. Not only hatred but scorn: a bottomless pit of it dwelling in that stare. 

“Something on your mind, Fraldarius? Happy to have the chance to die for your little friend here?”

“As if you wouldn’t,” Felix spat. 

This caught the man by surprise. He seemed to think about it. Then he smiled, almost as if in agreement. There was no laughter in the smile, or even the face. It was a sun-starved face with jaundiced sunken eyes and little light reflected in them. 

“I would,” he said. “I would die for her many times over. I don’t suppose you’d understand.”

“You’re the one who doesn’t understand," hissed Felix. "You don’t know a damn thing about -- about -- ”

The man looked at him then, thoughtfully. “No,” he said slowly, “I think we both know enough about it.” 

That shut Felix up.

“Hubert von Vestra,” Sylvain said suddenly, to no one at all. “Of Vestra Holdings. That’s who you are. It’s been bothering me -- I saw you in the paper -- the man who bought the building.”

Vestra turned to him. He was genuinely curious.

“Fraldarius never told you about me? He should have.” 

“Told me what?” 

Vestra’s eyes twinkled darkly. “Anything at all, really,” he said. “It would have rather helped your investigation if he had. Perhaps he finds even uttering my name a challenge?”

“You’re damn right I do,” hissed Felix. 

“What’s your motive?” asked Sylvain. “Why do this for Edelgard?” 

Vestra seemed so bemused by the question he could hardly speak. 

It was Felix who answered. “She’s his motive, Sylvain. He’s done her dirty work for years. Hiding in the shadows. Edelgard’s fixer -- cleaner -- “ contempt dripped from his voice -- “ _lapdog_.” 

Sylvain suddenly understood something. “Ten years ago, at the mansion. That was --”

“It is curious,” Vestra said, “that all the evidence pointed so cleanly to your friend, is it not? The police were utterly deceived. It was no amateur framing.” Amusement twisted his gaunt face. “Of course these are all hypotheticals, but if someone framed him… I would like to be acquainted with such a man.”

“I wouldn’t,” said Sylvain. “I’d stamp him to bits."

“The opera,” said Felix. “Was that you as well?” 

“The imbecile was supposed to hide the sword,” said Vestra, “not to use it. Should never have hired him in the first place.”

“Who?” asked Sylvain.

“Does she know what you’re doing?” said Felix abruptly. “That you’re doing -- this?” 

Vestra stared down them both. 

“I don’t see why I should answer,” he said, “seeing as you’re about to die.” 

In that moment something strange happened. 

The rooftop door opened and a man stepped out. 

It was clear that none of the three of them had been expecting him. Neither Felix nor Sylvain nor Vestra himself. The man wore a mask over his face so he could not be recognized. He was of average height and average build. Nothing about him was remarkable at all save that he held a loaded gun and he was pointing it at Hubert von Vestra. 

Vestra understood the situation at once. He lifted his hands up slowly and backed away from the two of them. The stranger nodded. Vestra kept backing away. Slowly he moved, step by step, further and further, until he was flush against the railing of the rooftop. During his retreat the stranger had moved toward him inexorably. Now he stopped and simply motioned with the gun. 

Vestra looked at him. His eyes were shining. Humorlessly he began to laugh.

“I see,” he said hoarsely. “You want me to choose -- here and now, by gunshot -- or to simply cast myself over the railing. Is that it?”

It was happening so fast. Now Sylvain would never know the extent of his involvement with the opera and the second wife and the stone. Perhaps it did not matter anymore. 

The stranger spoke then at last, and it seemed to Sylvain that he had heard that voice before, somewhere very far away: 

“What’ll it be?” he said. 

Vestra looked at him in wonder. Then he looked down at his own gloved hands. Sylvain had no love for the man but watching him grapple with his own mortality struck a chord within him. When you stare down a gun you always think you can get out of it. Not this time. Vestra knew it too. 

The stranger cocked the pistol. Vestra looked at him again. Then he looked at the pair of them, tied up on the floor still. 

“Go to hell,” Felix said.

Vestra smiled. He spread his arms. Then he leaned back. Only a little but enough to disappear. 

There was no splash. There was not even a sound. Only the howling wind to mask the terror. 

Now it was silent on the rooftop utterly. It was silent as the stranger walked over and untied the two of them. Silent still as he stood and watched them stand and wince and rub their chafing wrists and legs. 

“Who the hell are you?” demanded Felix. 

The man said nothing. He did not want to be known. He merely looked at Felix evenly. Then he pointed, with his gun, across the city. He was pointing in a straight line to Pacific Heights as if trying to tell them something? Pointing to a ruin on a hilltop. Then Felix startled and Sylvain understood:

A lone light flickered in the ruined Blaiddyd mansion. 

  
  


\--

  
  


Sylvain had never seen the mansion before. Up close it was ruined beyond recognition. Everywhere debris and fallen beams and foul charred dust. Only one wing of the house remained in any condition and it was that wing that the light was coming from. At the sudden flare of voices past a corner Sylvain grabbed Felix by the arm. 

(Felix glared at him. But he was shaking.)

Through the crack in the door they could see red. Blood? No. The crimson coat of Edelgard von Hresvelg. And she was speaking. 

“I’ve sought you for months,” she said. “Ironic to find you here of all places.” 

Silence for several moments. Then a laugh, terrible and clear. 

“Ironic?” said the voice. Sylvain had heard that voice before. “I would not say that.” 

It was the haggard man. He stepped forward into the light. A lion’s mane of hair fell around his shoulders. This was Dimitri Blaiddyd. He did not need the tension of Felix’s body to tell him so. An eyepatch masked a long, thin scar. He was as Felix had described him. He was wild and unchained.

“Dimitri,” said Edelgard. “It’s been ten years. Are you still so bent on revenge?” 

This elicited a sharp bark of laughter from Dimitri. 

“Revenge? I do not call it such. What I seek is only justice.” 

“Then we are the same. I, too, seek justice. I seek the restoration of my house. You must know this.” 

She sought to placate him. She sought without success.

“We have nothing in common,” the man said bitterly. “To hear talk of restoration from you -- the one who slaughtered my own house! And now you are here to kill me.”

“I didn’t kill your house. And I’m not here to kill you.”

“If not you, someone else. Perhaps your lapdog.” 

“He doesn’t know I’m here.” She was curt now. “I’m here to talk, Dimitri.” 

He stepped forward now, into a beam of moonlight that illuminated his face starkly. It was not the monstrous visage Sylvain had been half-expecting. Though it was twisted and terrible a very human anguish lay upon it. 

“Surely you do not believe what you say,” he said, wonderingly. “You know how this must end.”

“No one’s going to die tonight,” said Edelgard. “Give me the stone.” 

“Death does not scare me,” said Dimitri. “Not as much as you, with your false promises and empty words. To talk! -- you say this to me even as you finger the pistol in your pocket, do you not? Had you ever any intention of just talking?”

“You never see reason,” said Edelgard. Trump card lost, she pulled the little gun out of her pocket. The silencer was on. It fit snugly between her fingers. “Where is it?” 

A sharp laugh now. That sound bordered on madness. “It is in my sights. And never in yours -- as long as I live.” 

“Give me the stone.”

“Take it from me,” said Dimitri. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Edelgard snapped. “It’s like you want to die. Why die for a chunk of rock? It doesn’t mean anything to you, does it?” 

Dimitri looked at her in wonder. 

“It is weregild,” he said. The moonlight gleamed in his lone blue eye. “For the death of my father, my mother, and all I held dear.”

“I had nothing to do with that.”

“Would that you spoke true,” Dimitri said. His lone eye closed briefly. Then it opened again, and now -- it blazed. “Since that day ten years ago I have clung to life for one purpose and one purpose only. I must quiet the voices. Do you know what they clamor for? Can you hear them, even now?” 

“You’re insane,” said Edelgard. 

“Am I?” said Dimitri. “Am I, El?” 

The muffled _crack!_ of a gunshot rang out in response. Sylvain covered Felix’s mouth with his hand. 

Dimitri hardly seemed to notice. Inexorably he approached her. Angered, she shot him again -- once -- twice -- a flurry of gunshots in quick succession, all at point-blank range. Enough to subdue an elephant, let alone a man. 

But was Dimitri really a man?

“Let us be finished, you and I.” 

Dimitri said this so softly it was no more than a murmur. 

Then -- movement. Sylvain could no longer see what was happening through the crack in the door. But he could hear them grappling. It was the sound of an animalistic struggle for life and death. Rips and tears of fabric. The pistol clicking desperately, out of bullets. The noise of splintering wood. Finally a shriek and an awful cracking noise that made his whole body shudder. Then shuffling. Then silence. 

They rushed in --

\--

Edelgard was dead. 

You didn’t have to be a detective to see it. Blood everywhere. She had put up a valiant fight. Her skull was broken clean through. From the indentations it seemed as though Dimitri had crushed it with his hands alone. Could he be so freakishly strong? Sylvain refused to imagine it. 

Dimitri could not have gone far. He had lost too much blood. Red trailed out the parlor and through the rooms and down the stairs. Outside the ruined mansion the wind began to howl. The trail led west, away from all this, down to the wharf and the pier. Now Felix began to run and it was all Sylvain could do to keep up. They ran down the hill and through windswept streets, toward the ferry and the bay. Here the trail went cold but there was no longer any need for it. 

A figure lay there: half on the pier, half in the water. Neither of them moved until Felix stumbled toward the body, step by strange step, as if dreaming.

Edelgard was dead. He had lived to kill her and now she was dead. Dimitri had been honest: life meant nothing to him save that singular purpose. He was cool to the touch. He could have been sleeping if not for the tinge of blue in his lips and cheeks already. In death he looked almost peaceful. 

Felix knelt down and took him by the hand. Then he closed his eyes and wept. 

“Dimitri,” he said helplessly. “Dimitri -- ” 

There was nothing Sylvain could say.

Instead he sated his own curiosity. He had a question and he was going to answer it. It was the whereabouts of the stone that had started this whole thing. Dimitri had been clear on this point: he had hidden it somewhere she would never find it. And yet It seemed reasonable that it could be hiding in plain sight. Perhaps on his person. He patted down the body as gently as he could. Nothing. 

He was ready to call it quits when suddenly he had a guess he knew to be true. Detective’s intuition. Now he reached, slowly and with care, for the eyepatch. It loosened easily. Sylvain held his breath and tugged it to the side. 

There it was as surely as he had known it to be. In the right eye socket blazed the gem. It glowed a deep ruby red. Blood crusted the rim of the socket. Sylvain looked at it for a long time. It gazed back at Sylvain. 

He thought of its worth. He thought of Felix. Then he tugged the eyepatch back into place and looked away. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wanted there to be an epilogue but couldn't get it to a state i was happy with and am now 300% out of fire emblem brain juice so we're just gonna post the ending and run ;) this might be more noir anyway... no one gets what they want! everyone gets what they deserve!!! 
> 
> thank u sm for reading this silliness! catch me on [twitter](twitter.com/letrasette)! fair warning i'm like obsessed w persona 5 rn but i love talkin so!! yeah


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